


Let's bake a cake (Photo albums)

by okeydokey (LilMissNerdfighter)



Series: Merry Christmas from 221B [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Hamish goes through John's stuff, M/M, Reichenbach references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:59:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilMissNerdfighter/pseuds/okeydokey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have gone on out on a case, leaving Hamish alone in 221B to bake a Christmas Cake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's bake a cake (Photo albums)

Flour, eggs, butter, sugar, treacle and various different fruits and spices were lined up on the kitchen table- Sherlock had reluctantly cleared his new chemistry set away and John had cleaned the table (twice) with the strongest disinfectant he could find. Hamish surveyed the rows of ingredients, checking that everything was there and in the right quantities, before getting to work.

He mixed and poured, singing along quietly to the CD playing in the background. Sherlock had his experiments, John had his patients and Hamish had his baking. He wasn’t sure how his parents had survived before he had learnt to cook (starting young, learning under Mrs Hudson’s careful guidance, until she had taught him everything she knew and had told John and Sherlock that even at the age of six, he was a better cook by far than most adults she knew). Probably on congealed takeaways and squashed sandwiches- they barely knew how to work the oven between them. It had been three years since Mrs Hudson had stopped giving him lessons, but he still sometimes visited her downstairs to bake cakes or biscuits or soufflés (soufflés were one of the only things Sherlock would eat on cases, Hamish didn’t really know why).  He enjoyed cooking, experimenting with ingredients to see if they would work together or produce foul smells and taste awful. He preferred baking though; there was a precision to it that meant that if the wrong quantity was added it (sometimes literally) blew up in his face. Today, he was baking Christmas cake, as 221B was empty and it meant that no-one would bother him.

Christmas cakes were easy; he just needed a big enough bowl. Hamish grabbed a key from inside his pocket, and unlocked the kitchen cupboard by the sink. The biggest bowl wasn’t hard to find, it was orange after all. The problem with big bowls was that his father had a tendency to use them in experiments, which meant that there was no way he was going to leave them lying around. His dad had bought him a lock one day, when he had come home to discover Sherlock combining eye balls with some form of acid in the bowl he had used the day before to make brownies. Hamish had immediately moved all of his cooking supplies (with the exception of that bowl) to a designated cupboard (the one he used to use for card and felt tip pens), and locked it shut. Since then he hadn’t had that problem, and he had been able to cook without worrying that one of his spoons had been used to scramble a brain. Likewise, Sherlock had been given his own cupboard and he had put his most valuable experiments and chemicals in his, keeping the key hidden (under the skull). It was definitely a compromise (the alternative was that either he cooked away from the house or that Sherlock wasn’t allowed to use any of the kitchen equipment).

Hamish poured the cake mixture into the tin, and shoved it into the oven, leaning against the door to close it. 4 ½ hours to wait. He knew exactly what to do to pass the time- his parents were on a case and wouldn’t be home until later that evening. He didn’t mind being alone- the silence was comfortable, rather than lonely. Besides, he rarely had 221B to himself, Sherlock and John hated leaving him by alone. He didn’t blame them, knowing their past. But he was safe here, in Baker Street (Mycroft was monitoring the flat, and knew if anyone so much as breathed a mile away).

What his parents hadn’t worked out (bless them, they were so naïve) was that he had learnt to pick a lock the first time he had every been at home by himself (well, maybe Sherlock knew, but he hadn’t mentioned it), and so he had access to John’s cupboard (six year old Hamish had insisted that his dad got his own cupboard, so as not to feel left out). His dad’s cupboard contained photo albums (nine thick tomes), the ones that he didn’t want to lose- or the ones that he didn’t want anyone to see. That photo from when he was in Uni, that he would’ve thrown away, but sentiment forced him to keep it. The photo of him drunk at a Christmas party, or of him dragging Sherlock around sightseeing. Baby photos of Hamish, Sherlock and John’s wedding. And then there were the less happy ones (which had horrified Hamish when he had first found them); the photo of John at Sherlock’s funeral, struggling not to cry (why had anyone taken that photo?), John’s first Christmas and birthday without Sherlock (there was a gap in the picture where Sherlock should’ve been) and newspaper clippings, showing St Bart’s and blood on the pavement. Hamish understood why his dad kept that photo album hidden, it was something he wanted to forget, and didn’t want to tell Hamish about yet. Hamish had, of course, researched Sherlock’s death (how could he be dead, he had been playing the violin at 3AM last night?). He couldn’t believe that his father had _jumped_. He had faked his own death- and had known that if it had gone wrong, he would’ve actually died. His classmates might’ve thought him selfish or cold to put John through that, but Hamish had decided (after sitting in stunned, but contemplative silence for two hours) that his father must have loved his dad so much to do that. He must’ve been so brave. He wasn’t sure who he respected more, his father for jumping, or his dad for living despite losing his best friend and future husband.

Hamish flicked through the photos, laughing at John’s commentary next to some of the photos:

_What the hell was I wearing? Bright green looks awful on everybody._

_Sherlock didn’t even try to pretend to look interested. Those poor people- he revealed all of their secrets in two seconds after this photo was taken._

_Doesn’t Hamish look adorable? Even with the cake mixture dripping down his face. He was so surprised that the cake mixture didn’t stay in the bowl when he tipped it over his head._

Hamish was lost in John’s photos, and barely responded when the oven started beeping. The sound of a siren in the distance, however, jolted him from his absorbed state and he ran to rescue the cake. It was fine (perfect, even if he did say so himself), and there was just enough time to tidy away the albums and lock the cupboard again before his parents came home.

Sherlock and John stumbled into 221B breathing heavily, and laughing, leaning against each other, shaking snow from their hair. They grinned at each other and then at him, before collapsing into their chairs, exhilarated. Before Hamish knew what he was doing, he grabbed his phone from the work mantelpiece and took a photo of his parents, returned from a case, happy but exhausted, with a Christmas tree twinkling in the background.

John wasn’t the only one who could start a photo album.


End file.
